


like driftwood on the sand

by toboldlywrite



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/F, Partying, flashbacks to Peggy/Colleen, in which Peggy is a beleaguered roommate and Howard is an unintentional wingman, rated T for language pretty much, there will be no Howard/Angie let me assure you, this fic has a complicated backstory okay, will be multichapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3403814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toboldlywrite/pseuds/toboldlywrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard Stark is probably the worst roommate ever.  He's up all night canoodling with God knows how many women, with his music turned up way too high, and frankly Peggy's sick of it.</p>
<p>Then she meets Angie, in the middle of the night in Howard's kitchen, and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Howard Stark might be a decent friend, but he’s a _shitty_ roommate.

Peggy practically wraps her head in her pillow, wishing she’d realized this before she moved in.  It’s three in the morning, and the worst of the bass drops faded away several hours ago, along with most of the party.  But Howard, apparently, just moved his stereo to his bedroom - conveniently, right next door to Peggy’s room.  The bass makes the pictures on her walls vibrate with every beat, the sound piercing even the soft down of her pillow.  Grumbling inarticulately, she rolls over and flings her arm over the pillow, pinning it to her ear.  That blocks out most of the sex noises but very little of the bass.

It’s no use.  She kicks her covers off with a little more vehemence than normal.  Perhaps some warm milk will help.  That and the prospect of chewing Howard out once she’s finished her milk.  Yes, that sounds like an excellent option.  She rolls off her bed, cringing as her head starts pounding like the bass next door, and shrugs her bathrobe on as if it’s a shawl.  Sleeves just seem like too much effort right now.

The party must have ended quite some time ago, for the rest of the apartment is dark save for the glint of “mood lighting” (ugh) under Howard’s door.  Peggy’s only lived here a few weeks, but she’s already memorized exactly how many steps it is to the fridge.  She shuffles over to it, her feet sliding on hardwood, and yanks open the fridge door.

“Ow!”

Peggy sees the woman standing near the fridge an instant after the door collides with her.  “Christ!” she exclaims, grabbing the door before it can bounce shut again.  “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t see you there.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” the woman says, crossing behind Peggy and joining her on the other side of the door.  “You just surprised me.”

Peggy has to resist the urge to stare at the woman, made newly visible by the light from the fridge.  Her nut-brown hair tumbles down her shoulders in full, loose curls.  She’s wearing a light blue tank top and _very_ short lace shorts.  Peggy’s mouth has gone dry.   _For God’s sake, Margaret_ , she scolds herself, _contain the gay_.

“I’m Angie, by the way,” the woman says as she reaches into the fridge for a beer, her hair cascading around her face.  “And you are?”

It takes Peggy a moment to remember that she needs to respond.  She’s busy echoing the woman’s name in her head, testing it on her tongue.   _Angie.  Angie._  “Oh - er, Peggy,” she says after a good two seconds.  “Nice to meet you, Angie.”  A little shiver runs down her spine as she says Angie’s name.

Angie grins, snagging the bottle opener from the counter.  “Likewise, English.”  She pops open the bottle and then, strangely, frowns.  “Is that a bathrobe or a blanket?” she asks.

_Oh._  Peggy had completely forgotten about her bathrobe.  “Er…”  She realizes how she must look, hunched over and clad in her baggy pajamas and robe.  Like the old witch from Snow White.  “Bathrobe,” she mumbles as she snatches up the first milk carton she sees.  “Good night.”  And she shuffles back to her room without another word, warm milk be damned.

Once she shuts the door to her room, she lets out the breath she’s been holding with a whoosh.   _God, Peggy,_ she thinks, draining the last of the milk from the carton and tossing it onto her desk.   _Way to make a first impression._  She can already tell she’ll be kicking herself for days.  Angie really is unfairly attractive, even for one of Howard’s catches.  Peggy can’t help but wonder why she was alone in the kitchen.

_That doesn’t mean she’s gay, or bi_ , she reminds herself sternly, wrapping her bathrobe a little tighter around herself and heading for the bed.  Lord knows she’s fallen into that trap far too many times.

She’s pulled the covers over herself before she realizes she never yelled at Howard.   _Damn it_ , she thinks as yet more ambient electronic bass tones buzz through the wall.   _Damn it all to hell._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL. I SUCK AT UPDATING AND I AM SO SORRY. First I was trying not to drown in schoolwork, and then I was gallivanting all around Washington state for spring break, and this whole time I've been working on the novel I'm writing for a class, and yeah basically life happened. I promise I'll try to update more regularly from now on.

Peggy feels as if she’s barely drifted off to sleep when her alarm honks to life.  Six AM.  Wonderful.  She drags herself out of bed anyway, though.  Five minutes later, she’s thrown her bag over her shoulder and is out the door.

She’s always been an early riser.  Not in the sense that she _likes_ getting up in the morning, oh no - she just knows full well that she won’t get anything done if she lets herself sleep in.  Forcing herself to wake up has been taxing these past few weekends, but the thought of coffee is usually enough to keep her going, as it is today.

It’s about a twenty-minute walk up Pacific Avenue to the coffee shop she likes, the L&L.  There’s a bit of a breeze, enough to ruffle her hair and set her more at ease.  This is one of the things she likes best about Howard’s place.  The marina is so peaceful at this time of morning that even she, the queen of the tightly-wound, can relax.

“Morning, early bird,” Rose the barista says as Peggy walks in.  “I’ll get your latte started for you.”

Peggy smiles as she heads for her usual corner chair.  Having baristas who know her name and order is pretty nice, too.

She texts Howard around 10 - his paramours have usually left by this point.   _On a scale of 1 to hung, drawn, and quartered_ , she says, _how hung over are you?_

His reply comes a good ten minutes later.   _Fucking quartered._

She likes to think she isn't petty, but after last night's pounding bass, a pounding headache on Howard’s part would be poetically just.   _I'm not surprised._  As that message sends, she adds, _So who was the girl in the lacy shorts?_

This time, Howard’s replies are much quicker.

_Uh._   
_Good question._   
_I remember who you're talking about, but I was with her friend for most of the night._

(Peggy resists the urge to gag.)

_She left the house before sunrise, I think,_ Howard adds.

_I hope that wasn't because I hit her with the icebox door._

No reply.

_Completely accidental, by the way,_ she adds after a minute, but it’s probably no use.  If Howard’s that hung over, he’s in no condition to do much thinking anyways.

By the time Peggy turns the last page of the Wilde biography she’s been working through for ages, it's 1 pm and the place is getting crowded. She’s never stayed quite this late before, for precisely this reason. She glances at the poor beleaguered barista behind the counter, a woman with a severe ponytail and harried eyes. She’s never seen this particular barista before -

Or has she? The woman looks strangely familiar...

A chiming laugh right behind Peggy makes her jump in her seat. She twists halfway around, her heart pounding. She hasn't heard that kind of laugh in two months.

The laughing woman is black-haired, though, not blonde. She looks nothing like - _don't do this_ , Peggy thinks, _don't even think about it._  She slings her bag over her shoulder and strides out of the L &L, willing herself not to look back.

Even so, the woman’s laugh - Colleen's laugh - echoes in the back of her head.

~~~

Peggy still can't understand how Howard has the stamina to throw such wild parties two nights in a row, let alone how he manages to make Saturday nights even wilder than Friday nights. _Maybe I can't understand it because I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in a month_ , she thinks waspishly as she turns up the volume on her laptop. _Maybe the sleep deprivation is well and truly getting to me._

Even Siouxsie and the Banshees, turned up high and piped through her earbuds, can't quite drown out Howard’s party. Peggy growls as she rips her earbuds out and sets her laptop aside. She might need a drink herself if she’s going to make it through the evening without punching anybody.

She’s stirring the Baileys into her hot chocolate when a voice behind her says, "No bathrobe tonight, English?"

Oh, no. It's her. Peggy is sure her face must be as red as the setting sun. _Come on_ , she tells herself, _you can do this_. She takes a large sip of her drink and turns to face Angie, clutching her mug for dear life. "No," she replies.  “I’ve decided to masquerade as Clark Kent rather than Superman.”  The moment the words leave her mouth, she cringes.  Great, now Angie is going to think she’s a dork.  The almighty dork.  Dorkus supremus.

But Angie just grins.  “Nice.  Did the party get to be too much for you, too?”

For a moment, Peggy wonders if she _really_ looks like she belongs at Howard’s party.  “Oh, no, I’m not actually - well, _at the party_ , you know.  I just live here.”

Angie’s brows furrow, and she picks at the hem of her oversized T-shirt.  “Really?” she says, her voice guarded.  “I didn’t know Howard had a steady.”

“Oh-”  Peggy resists the urge to add _for fuck’s sake_.  She’s had to field those sorts of assumptions ever since she moved in, and she’s bloody tired of it, but that’s not Angie’s fault.  “It’s not like that at all,” she replies once she’s got herself under control.  “Howard and I were friends in college.  Stayed in touch somehow-” through Facebook, mostly - “so when… er…”  She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry.  “A couple months ago, I found myself in need of a place to sleep, and Howard offered me his spare bedroom.”  She tries not to think about how her last living situation fell through (to put it lightly).  Mostly, she tries not to think about Colleen.

It doesn’t work.  It never does.

Angie’s face has softened again, and a hint of a smile tugs at her lips.  “Did he tell you that’s his lover’s-spat bedroom?  Where all the girls who don’t end up liking him sleep?”

Peggy snorts.  “No, but I figured it out.  The second night I was here, three girls tried to get into the room.  One of them made it all the way to the bed before I noticed and kicked her out.”

“I bet they had to sleep in the third bedroom.  Or on the couch.”

“What a horrific injustice.”  A powerful yawn seizes Peggy at that moment, and for an awkward fifteen seconds, she tries to get it out of her system.  “Good Lord,” she manages to say after a while.  “I should reclaim my bed before somebody else tries to take it.”

Angie laughs softly.  “You do that.  Night, English.”

“Night,” Peggy replies, grasping her mug with both hands and shuffling back towards the hall.  She almost looks back at Angie - _no, Margaret, bad idea_ , she scolds herself, and just like that, the newfound lightness in her heart disappears.

Still, the last thing she sees in her mind’s eye before she dozes off is Angie, her hair backlit by the hall lamps.  It had almost glowed.

~~~

A duck’s squawk wakes Peggy up the next morning.  “Mmmfgh,” she mumbles into her pillow.  The duck.  That’s the wrong alarm.  That’s her… oh, right, that’s her _you’ve-slept-through-literally-every-other-alarm_ alarm.  She rolls over, not even opening her eyes, and fumbles around for her phone.  The damn thing ended up under her top blanket somehow.  “Bloody hell,” she mutters as she unlocks it.

Two PM.  So much for being productive this morning.  Oh well, she’ll just have to wait if she wants to see that cute new barista again.  She draws the blanket over her head with a groan.  No harm in getting a little more sleep, right?

_Course not_ , she thinks dimly as her eyes slide shut again.   _Course not._

**Author's Note:**

> Long story short, I got the basic concept for this fic (that of the beleaguered sleep-deprived roommate falling for one of her Don-Juan roomie's house guests) from the Amazon blurb for Abbi Glines's _Because of Low._ Yeah.


End file.
